


He hit me. And it felt like a kiss.

by verywickedwitch



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Brother/Sister Incest, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, F/M, Incest Kink, Minor Violence, Psychic Violence, Sexual Violence, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verywickedwitch/pseuds/verywickedwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just kind of Margot's stream of consciousness which reveals she doesn't hate her brother as much as everyone may think...</p>
            </blockquote>





	He hit me. And it felt like a kiss.

_ _

_If he didn't care for me,_

_I could have never made him mad._

_But he hit me,_

_And I was glad._

**_Unwoman – He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss)_ **

You always liked to hurt me. As long as I could remember. From our very childhood.

Do you remember that charming Vietnamese piglet, which I received for my sixth birthday? Due to our mother’s allergy I could never have a kitten as I had dreamed, so father decided to kill two birds with one stone – to provide me with a pet and somehow attach to the family business, which I was not interested in. Unlike you, I never wanted to be present at the poor animals’ murder, you, on the contrary, had never missed any opportunity to snake to a slaughter-house. And then, one terrible day, you decided to try on my Bertie everything you had seen. And you made me watch. Watch how, over and over again, your acutely sharpened knife for slaughtering pigs – a mini version of the real one, also a gift from our loving father – pierced the small, dark little body that was thrashing about and convulsing in responce. One hit wasn’t enough for you. Made in one precise movement, it would have relieved the poor piglet’s suffering. But it would be so boring, yes, Mason? You revelled in causing pain to the hysterically yelling Bertie, but you received even more pleasure by hurting me. You told me, you swore the next blow would strike me if I did not watch, if I closed my eyes even for a second. And I believed you. I believed that you would really fulfil your promise, and your hand would not tremble at all. I watched the bloody mess into which you turned my pet, and did my best not to blink. That made tears rise to my eyes, and then you left your occupation, squatting down in front of me. Cold steel, red with blood, touched my cheek gently, leaving no scratches, but taking away the same cold salty droplet. Which you scrutinized in fascination first and then licked from the end of a knife.

That's when it all started.

Formerly, you used to pull my hair, lovingly braided by mother or our parlormaid Emma, hard or take away my candies. You used to tell all sorts of nasty things, forcing me to run and hide from you to no longer hear anything offensive. And that was enough for you. It was enough for you to hurt me or scare me, and sometimes – both at the same time. But the day you killed Bertie in front of me and then forced me to bury his remains in the garden and wash clean the floor in the living room from his blood - since that day everything had been changed. It was not enough for you to make me feel an icy horror, you also had to make me cry. You were so delighted with that, and you always couldn’t help not tasting my tears. First, you wiped them with the back of your hand, and as you became older – you sponged them up with a tiny piece of thin tissue, which you threw in free swimming along with the ice cubes on the bottom of your glass with martini. And sometimes you simply collected transparent droplets of my pain with your lips – from my cheeks, my eyelids, my neck.

The more painful it was for me, the happier you became.

Your ingenuity knew no bounds. You liked to break me. And, without giving me time to pull myself together – break me again into even smaller pieces.

I close my eyes, trying to fall asleep, and see your grinning face. Devilish glint in the icy blue eyes – my own became the same cold with the course of time, thanks to you. And also empty. But if yours are illuminated and filled with light and life, when you put out another smoked cigarette with menthol flavor on my skin or put your fingers, under which patterns of purple bruises bloom, tightly around my neck... I come to life at the touch of your hands.

Formerly, I was afraid of and tried to avoid this. I shrank fearfully from your touches and looked around, scared, wondering whether I was able to get away before you would have time to hurt me. You whispered foul words gently in my ear and, in contrast to the tone of your voice, grasped my forearm harshly, groping for the point of tenderness in the crook of the elbow deftly. You tore my clothes, pushing me on the bed roughly and with the same rough strokes entering me – any way and any time you wished. My own desire was never taken into account. Just more moans, of pleasure or pain – no matter. More tears, so that you could pick them up with the tip of your tongue and absorb with your warm lips, holding my chin with one hand and clutching me imperiously, running fingertips of another hand through the protruding scars, smiling.

But what happened to me now, Mason? I grew up as your complete opposite. Equally perverse. You made me who I am. I pretend that I'm afraid of you. Pretend that I hate you. That your punches hurt me over and over again, while they feel like kisses. You are not inclined to exhibit your feelings, you aren’t able to love – and your affection for me, special and one of a kind, is expressed in such a distorted form. As well as my affection for you. I could have complained to our parents or friends, could have reported you to the police – anything, a million times. But I haven’t done it, because, with time, you crippled me and broke me so much that I started to enjoy what you were doing to me. Or maybe it's always been in me, and you just helped my essence to reveal. You hurt me, and I gladly accept this pain. And I do not imagine, how it could be otherwise.

The most important thing is that you do not get to know about it. After all, you're always trying to deprive me of what I like and what I value the most. Bitter experience has taught me to be a good actress and pretend so plausible that you would not understand and would not deprive me of what has somehow become the most valuable of all.

After all, I have no one but you.

And, frankly, I need no one else.

You like to cause me pain, but I do not feel it – I do not perceive everything the way I actually should. The more painful it is for me, the happier you are. And along with you – I am.

_If you didn’t give a damn about me, you wouldn’t be doing your best to hurt me._

 


End file.
